Icarus Branded
by DrWorm
Summary: Neither snakes nor men were meant to fly. Crowley/Aziraphale.


Notes: Written for the poetry challenge at contrelamontre on livejournal. I'm not sure what to think of it.

"_unsignificantly__  
off the coast  
there was  
  
a splash quite unnoticed  
this was  
Icarus drowning"- From "Landscape With the Fall of Icarus," William Carlos Williams._

Icarus Branded

Ah… _ah… pain ran white-hot from tailbone to shoulder blade to clavicle to sternum and made him shudder even as he doubled over and clutched his belly, as if that was really where the unfamiliar feeling originated. __Drop, drop, drop along the line of his spine and he wanted to howl and scream until his throat was raw but he couldn't, somehow, every cry was hoarse and silent. It burned; he could smell something unpleasant in the air; thick as the aroma of a slaughterhouse, the scent hung like a fog above him. Raven's wings beat frantically in his panic, thrashing as if they'd been caged and stirring the thick haze that had resulted from the connection of holy water and demon flesh. Several feathers came loose and fell slowly to the floor, where they languished against a glossy and perfected background of cherrywood and lacquer. Then there were hands restraining, twisting, and allowing delicate bone to grind against delicate bone. Crowley hissed, all control lost._

"Little snake, little snake, still a bother," And then heat blazed from the point just above the protrusion of the base of his spine, human spine, and sharp, black nails ripped trenches into the expensive floorboards, uncaring. They pressed the silver of a blesséd crucifix against his skin, their own scaled hands gloved and protected against the ire of Christ as they branded him. "Just a reminder," and they cackled as they left. "Just a reminder, little snake, and you won't be getting a new body anytime soon." They left him shaking: with surprise, with pain, with humiliation. He didn't move for a very long time, and when he did it was to curl his wings gently and securely around himself, trying to hide despite missing feathers.

It was many hours later, days perhaps, when he felt the vibrations of soft footsteps at his side. He was warm all over, still stinging, still on fire, still too shamed to raise his head and view his visitor through slatted pupils. He hissed instead, very faintly, and tasted the air as a precaution, though he was sure he knew who it was when the fire was extinguished abruptly by a wave of ice that shivered and tingled down his back. He did not lift his head when delicate fingertips ghosted down the sharp hills and plains of his vertebrae, easing the pain in every single blister. He blinked and sighed as flattened palms slid purposefully up into his wings, ruffling feathers, stroking, massaging gently. He arched up gingerly, and his wings fluttered once in appreciation. "Yes, relax," a low voice murmured, soothing muscles that had long been tensed against attack. "Poor Crawly."

"Snakes weren't meant to have wings," he croaked as his not entirely human body undulated and pushed fiercely against kind hands, which induced a kind of pleasure unknown to any being who was not angel, devil, or somewhere between the two. 

"Ah, well," and Crowley could hear a sad smile in that voice. "Snakes… weren't meant to have expensive clothes or automobiles either, I expect." The only response was a steady purr like a female cat in heat, as flesh trembled, blisters broke and oozed, and Crowley bit his lower lip with sharp, little teeth. The hands moved on, up, around, and teased the unlikely erogenous zone with a sureness that came from millennia of practice. The forceful petting was interspersed with caresses that whispered and scratches that wailed, loosening more feathers that fell noiselessly to join their brethren; still, they never stopped, working most forcefully as Crowley peaked and backing away to a more soothing pressure as he quivered and panted with the afterglow. One hand continued to move almost absently across the sleek feathers as a damp cloth wiped a fluid akin to pus and infection from the sensitive skin surrounding the open sores on the demon's back. 

"Thank you," Crawley murmured an unaccustomed apology from the depths of near sleep, as Aziraphale draped a blanket over his prone form, allowing him the dignity of struggling to his small bed on his own. Footsteps retreated, cheap soles squeaking slightly in protest at being forced into friction with the slick wood of the floor. He waited until they paused at the door. "And, Angel?" Crowley penetrated the air with a forked tongue that sensed discomfort as easily as it sensed pity. "If… if this should ever happen to me again…"

"Yes?"

"Don't pay it any mind."


End file.
